how will you begin? roll golden phoenix-eggs in fine grainy sand
scratch
feel scratched
cut that sharply cuts the blackest road. white-solid-divider-line separating iron-clad directions of life
scratching the
feathered arc of magpie wing rolling through air, meaning; how do you begin?
butter morning warbles melting golden snow ribbons though breaded soul
Did you know magpies have over 900 syllables and a 4 octave register. Their dinner-time warble is brief and beautiful. Enchanting. Fine. Flutey. Floats away in twisting rising spirals.
To Begin; I notice our campfire is drawing in and wonder how that works within the shape of a day?
He told me a day was the ballerina’s arm arcing into the arms of her lover, her prince, as he arched her naked body into the swishing air between them.
It was actually a curse materialising many years later. It oozed out in time like puss from an ulcer that wouldn't be healed,
Like memories that loop away as unstable interconnecting arcs
Circulating, never right here, scratching. Write here;
Like rolling ball-shaped things up hills that feel like mountains and. Instead the piercing fragments littler, accumulating golden buttery lies (It’s enchanting).
To what end? The colour has changed. Smells like death-stop and the bullshit memories make fake dreams that present themselves as the rolling of self-deception upwards because there is success to be hard in that. I feel tired.
Connecting
Wings-of-
Double-helix-
Twisting-
Did you wish me dead?
Ever hex instead
Do you believe me?
And now?
Conceivably it was hear the warble first stained black, scratching deeply, iron wrapped over iron, tightly piercing rhythms, arm. The arc of the day changed. The murky brown ooze was delighted amusement from the sidelines. Old Jaffas arching looping in her direction. Her ballerina arm festering. Blisters oozing. It was an expanding sticky orange chocolate gooey fleshy buttery yellow mess. Shape and taste change. Don’t blame it on the Devil.
She lifted that black oozing arm and opened the black empty door before her. The door opened into emptiness.
"No shade on the color pink but it does seem to be the color most emblematic of a submissive, ultra-feminine brand of womanhood". I have never been sure if I agree with this idea that pink embodies the submissive female. I think the colour and its female associations speak to much more than that and, perhaps, other colours are as equally worthy of 'bestowing' a notion of submissiveness.
ill post something - poem - over the weekend :-)
Defamiliarising the nature of a dream;
how will you begin? roll golden phoenix-eggs in fine grainy sand
scratch
feel scratched
cut that sharply cuts the blackest road. white-solid-divider-line separating iron-clad directions of life
scratching the
feathered arc of magpie wing rolling through air, meaning; how do you begin?
butter morning warbles melting golden snow ribbons though breaded soul
Did you know magpies have over 900 syllables and a 4 octave register. Their dinner-time warble is brief and beautiful. Enchanting. Fine. Flutey. Floats away in twisting rising spirals.
To Begin; I notice our campfire is drawing in and wonder how that works within the shape of a day?
He told me a day was the ballerina’s arm arcing into the arms of her lover, her prince, as he arched her naked body into the swishing air between them.
It was actually a curse materialising many years later. It oozed out in time like puss from an ulcer that wouldn't be healed,
Like memories that loop away as unstable interconnecting arcs
Circulating, never right here, scratching. Write here;
Like rolling ball-shaped things up hills that feel like mountains and. Instead the piercing fragments littler, accumulating golden buttery lies (It’s enchanting).
To what end? The colour has changed. Smells like death-stop and the bullshit memories make fake dreams that present themselves as the rolling of self-deception upwards because there is success to be hard in that. I feel tired.
Connecting
Wings-of-
Double-helix-
Twisting-
Did you wish me dead?
Ever hex instead
Do you believe me?
And now?
Conceivably it was hear the warble first stained black, scratching deeply, iron wrapped over iron, tightly piercing rhythms, arm. The arc of the day changed. The murky brown ooze was delighted amusement from the sidelines. Old Jaffas arching looping in her direction. Her ballerina arm festering. Blisters oozing. It was an expanding sticky orange chocolate gooey fleshy buttery yellow mess. Shape and taste change. Don’t blame it on the Devil.
She lifted that black oozing arm and opened the black empty door before her. The door opened into emptiness.
Not everything is as it seems.
Don’t blame it on the Magician.
Don’t blame it on me.
The evening crickets will bring their tides.
"No shade on the color pink but it does seem to be the color most emblematic of a submissive, ultra-feminine brand of womanhood". I have never been sure if I agree with this idea that pink embodies the submissive female. I think the colour and its female associations speak to much more than that and, perhaps, other colours are as equally worthy of 'bestowing' a notion of submissiveness.